What Could Possibly Go Wrong (The Chronicles of St Mary's Book 6) Read online

  There were five of them. Alphabetically, we had Mr Atherton, Mr Hoyle, Miss Lingoss, Miss North, and Miss Sykes. All were single – in fact, come to think of it, I was the only married person I knew. And Leon, of course. Atherton, the oldest, had been briefly married. Very briefly. She’d left him and he’d kicked his banking job into touch and returned to his first love, History. He’d come to us via Thirsk.

  The non-American, Laurence Hoyle, was only in his mid-twenties, but looked older. Every time I looked at his photo, he reminded me of someone and I just couldn’t think whom. He was thin-faced with a long nose, a wide mouth, and deep, dark eyes that gave nothing away. I searched his features for any signs of humour and found none. If asked to guess his profession, I would have said monk. Or fanatic. He had a fragile look about him. I suspected possible childhood illness. He was another one who’d come to us from Thirsk. In fact, he’d been specially recommended by our liaison officer, Kalinda Black. Despite that, he looked harmless enough.

  Not so Miss Lingoss.

  ‘Wow!’ said Peterson, appearing alongside and staring at the photograph on the inside of the front cover. ‘She’s eye-catching.’

  I nodded gloomily. He was right. Historians, like librarians, sometimes labour under an unfortunate image. Quiet, mousy, hairy skirts, thick stockings, glasses on a chain round their necks – and that’s just the blokes.

  Miss Lingoss wore her thick black hair in a Mohican that added a good six inches to her height. She wore a short, tight leather top and an even shorter and tighter leather skirt. Her stockings were ripped; her heavy boots unlaced. Although, yes, maybe she was historian material after all because she certainly was wearing a heavy-duty chain around her neck. For what purpose I could only guess. Don’t ask me what she looked like. There probably was a face under all that make-up. She stood in her photo, hands on hips, challenging …

  ‘Does she have a first name?’ asked Peterson, peering over my shoulder.

  ‘Um …’ I flicked the file.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said, grinning. ‘They’re going to call her Connie,’ and disappeared, laughing his head off.

  And if Miss Lingoss looked like trouble, next up was Miss North. Celia North came from a good family background, had had the best education money could buy, and contrary to the usual spoilt-brat behaviour, had more than exceeded everyone’s expectations. Perfect, was the word that described everything about her. Perfect grades, perfect appearance, perfect life. It would appear that Miss North had only to set her sights on something for it to fall into her lap. This would be interesting.

  And finally came the one I suspected would be the biggest troublemaker of all. Elizabeth Sykes was the baby of the group. Short and dark, the face in her photo smiled up at me angelically. I knew that look. I should do. I held the patent.

  I sighed. What had seemed a perfectly straightforward exercise on paper suddenly seemed a great deal more complicated now that I actually had trainees.

  On the positive side, as usual, none of them had children or close family ties. I was particularly pleased about this because if my plan to get them out there as quickly as possible came crashing to the ground – and it well might – we could tie a brick around their necks, throw them into the lake, and move on to the next batch as quickly and quietly as possible. This was bound to appeal to Dr Bairstow – quick, efficient, and with minimum expenditure and fuss.

  I estimated training time at around six months. Give or take a few weeks for the odd wound to heal. Just six short months. Get them trained up, hand the training section back to Peterson, and return to what I still thought of as my real job as head of the History Department.

  I thought it would be safe. Dull, even. The perfect way to spend my period of medically imposed light duties. I would engage our trainees with a little gentle lecturing in the morning, and then they would go off and spend the rest of the day either with Leon, learning about pods; or with Markham, learning self-defence; or in the Library, studying something or other. I had a lot to learn about teaching, because the reality wasn’t like that at all.

  There’s a surprise.

  Chapter Two

  The big day dawned. I stood in the window, watching as they trickled up the drive, and were security wanded and signed in by Mr Strong, our caretaker. I sent them to be kitted out in the trainee-grey jump suits, ushered them to Sick Bay where they were medically probed, handed their blood-donating schedule, and vaccinated against everything in the world because Dr Foster likes to get all the bad stuff over in one go.

  I’d sent them for lunch, after which they’d endured the terrors of Dr Bairstow’s allegedly welcoming monologue, and now they stood in the Great Hall, bemused, expectant, and lightly traumatised. And waiting for me.

  My plan was to give them a moment to absorb the ambience, and then usher them into the training room for my own carefully thought out ‘Welcome to St Mary’s’ speech. However, from that moment in the Great Hall to the day the survivors graduated, it would be fair to say that very little went according to plan.

  We’re St Mary’s. We don’t scream. Although we do tend to be a cause of screaming in others. So when a yelping Bashford raced past, followed by a stampede of St Mary’s staff, all of them shrieking contradictory instructions, you could say my attention was caught.

  ‘My feet are melting! My feet are melting!’

  I gestured to my trainees to remain where they were. The sooner they got used to this, the better. I had no clue what was going on. Given those involved, it could be anything from a reconstruction of some medieval torture device to a re-enactment of the famous scene from The Wizard of Oz.

  As I said, we’re St Mary’s. To give us our full title, we’re the Institute of Historical Research based at St Mary’s Priory, just outside of Rushford. We’re part of the University of Thirsk. We research major historical events in contemporary time. Yes, time travel. As would soon be experienced by the innocents in my charge.

  I cleared my throat to regain their attention.

  A waste of time. Before I could continue, Dr Dowson erupted from the Library, trailing his own staff, all of them eager to become involved, and considerably adding to the confusion.

  He planted himself firmly in front of a hopping Bashford, demanding, ‘What’s going on here? What’s the old fool up to now?’

  He meant Professor Rapson. The Professor and Dr Dowson are old adversaries. Or old friends. Whichever it is, they delight in winding each other up.

  ‘My feet are on fire! Aaaagghh!’ yelled Mr Bashford, possibly feeling that not enough attention was being paid to his pain.

  In one smoothly synchronised movement, Mr Clerk tackled him to the ground and Prentiss rolled him over and sat on his chest. I felt a glow of pride. It’s not often we historians manage to achieve that level of coordination. Roberts and Sands wrestled off his boots. Mrs Mack and her team emerged from the kitchen with ice packs.

  Professor Rapson found his spectacles, took up the boots, and examined them closely, apparently quite oblivious to the curses of Bashford, now encased in ice to his knees and probably in imminent danger of frostbite.

  Dr Dowson was, as he frequently is, beside himself. ‘What on earth is going on? May I remind you – again – Andrew, that this is an educational establishment and as such …’

  He got no further. Bashford, feet encased in ice, interrupted him. ‘It might have been my own fault, sir. I think I may have overheated them.’

  Professor Rapson frowned. ‘I told you, my boy, ten seconds for every stone of body weight.’

  ‘Stone? You said pound!’

  ‘Did I?’ he said vaguely, already drifting off back to Planet Rapson. ‘Dear me. What was I thinking?’

  ‘Well, they work, sir.’

  ‘What works?’ demanded Peterson, pushing his way through the by now quite large crowd, because St Mary’s will stop working at the drop of a hat.

  ‘For the expedition to the prehistoric age,’ said Miss Prentiss, comfortably enscon
ced on Bashford’s chest and obviously in no hurry to move. ‘Heated boots.’

  ‘Oh. Cool.’

  The professor sighed. ‘Well, no actually, and that’s what appears to have been the problem. Sadly, it looks as if I shall have to go back to the drawing board and I have to say I was rather proud of these. Heat exchangers, you know.’

  Peterson took a boot from him and subjected it to close scrutiny. ‘Like the human nose, Professor?’

  ‘Something similar, yes, although I based this design on the human testes. I’m sure you’re all familiar with the pampiniform plexus which cools and reheats the blood to ensure optimum delivery of seminal … well, never mind that now.’

  Miss Prentiss got up in a hurry. ‘I’m not wearing anything whose design is based on Bashford’s testicles.’

  ‘You could do worse,’ said Bashford indignantly, from ground level.

  ‘Not according to what’s written in the ladies’ loo on the third floor. And there’s a diagram on the wall, as well.’

  ‘Really?’ said Bashford smugly. ‘The entire wall?’

  ‘Most of it seemed to be contained in an area approximately equivalent to that of a postage stamp.’

  ‘What?’ He struggled indignantly to his ice-wrapped feet.

  Once, I would have had to deal with this. Now, however, as Chief Training Officer, I could sit back and let others take the strain.

  My trainees stood nearby, mouths slightly agape. It was interesting to study their reactions. Hoyle, North, and Atherton looked slightly taken aback. Hoyle particularly so. If he had been expecting hallowed halls of learning, he was in for a bit of a shock. Lingoss had acquired a boot and was peering closely at the sole. Sykes was a picture of bright-eyed mischief. I made a mental note to keep an eye on her.

  Detaching them from the inevitably vigorous discussion that was building nicely, I led them into the training room.

  They say it takes a teacher a whole term to sum up her class. They also say it takes her class a whole minute to sum up their teacher. I wondered what they saw when they looked at me. A short, ginger historian in a blue jump suit, still leaning on a walking stick (Not so much because I needed it, but because I thought it gave me gravitas. And it was something to wield should my teaching skills prove unequal to the task in hand.) My name is Maxwell. I was Chief Ops Officer and then I had to have a partly new knee. I mean a partial knee replacement – so I’m on light duties for a while. Tim Peterson had the History Department now. Good luck to him.

  Anyway, I ushered them into the training room and stood looking down at them. I remembered Dr Bairstow’s trick of standing silently for a while. They looked at me. I looked at them. There were a lot more of them than there was of me.

  I let the silence gather.

  ‘Welcome to St Mary’s. My name is Maxwell. I am your primary trainer.’

  I paused to let that blow sink in.

  ‘As you will remember from your interview with Dr Bairstow, we investigate major historical events in contemporary time. Don’t call it time travel. If Dr Bairstow overhears you referring to it as time travel, then I’m afraid I won’t be able to save you.

  ‘If you would consult your organisational charts, please, you will find a list of the different departments and their functions. St Mary’s is a large establishment, but most people are easily identifiable. As you can see, trainees wear grey. Historians wear blue. The Technical Section wears orange. Security wears green. IT wears black. The Admin department wears whatever it likes – and members of R&D wear protective clothing, wound dressings, and a dazed expression.

  ‘Moving on to your timetables now … you will see that your schedule is divided into three areas. The first part of your training should take around four to six weeks and will consist of self-defence, first aid, and outdoor survival, all supervised by the Security Section. Then you will have pod familiarisation with Chief Farrell, followed by a number of practice assignments with me. The third part of your training, consisting mainly of the calculation of spatial and temporal coordinates, will be with Chief Farrell again and Professor Rapson – yes, you met him just now. The one with the hair.

  ‘There are weekly examinations every Friday afternoon which will cover everything learned that week. The pass mark of eighty per cent is rigorously applied. There are no resits. One fail and you’re out.’

  They nodded. No one spoke and I worried I’d frightened the living daylights out of them before we’d started. To reassure them and give them something pretty to look at, I brought up the Time Map.

  The Time Map is a thing of beauty – not just for what it represents, but also for what it is. Two twisting turning double cones of light and swirling colour. I could look at it for hours.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is our Time Map. Please come closer and have a look.’

  I stepped back to give them a moment.

  ‘Those of you who successfully complete their training will be designated Pathfinders. Maintaining this Time Map will be part of your responsibilities.’

  They were staring up at it, mesmerised.

  ‘What does it all mean?’ said Lingoss. Her voice was blunt Yorkshire.

  ‘Well. The vertical axis is the Timeline. The horizontal axis represents Space. The point where they intersect is Here and Now. Ground Zero, if you like. Everything above Now is the future, and below Now is the past. The lines radiating outwards from Now delineate the boundaries of the cones inside which we must work. We use the Time Map to plot historical events and their coordinates. Having done that, we can then chart the relationship between them. Here, for instance, if you look at the year 535AD – The Year of No Sunshine – you can see that event is linked to massive upheavals around the world – climate change, crop failure, drought, floods, the Pope died – not sure of what, but it didn’t help – plague swept around the world, empires fell, and new religions rose from the ashes.’

  I pointed to the silver filigree of lights connecting larger, different-coloured areas, tracing the lines from one event to another.

  ‘What are the tiny blue dots?’ asked Lingoss, peering closely.

  ‘Those are Pathfinder jumps. For instance,’ I brought another area into focus, ‘the date of the fall of Troy was not precisely known. The Pathfinders jumped about until they were able to pinpoint the exact location and date. Armed with that information, we launched two major expeditions. One to survey the city before the arrival of the Greeks and one to observe the closing stages of the war. Those are the two bigger red spots here and here. If you expand them,’ I did so, ‘you can bring up the coordinates and assignment numbers. From there you can access details of the mission. You can also see silver lines radiating outwards – these represent events leading up to and those occurring after the fall of Troy, because, of course, nothing happens in isolation.’

  ‘It’s very bottom-loaded,’ said Atherton, pointing. The Map shimmered as he touched it. ‘The top cone is virtually empty.’

  ‘There has been one jump into the future but the coordinates have been withheld.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We’re historians,’ I said. ‘Most of us are not interested in the here and now, let alone the future. Besides, jumping back into the past, while possessing its own hazards, is considerably less dangerous than the future. For a start, how do you know there is one? Let us say you decide to investigate London one hundred years from now. Suppose, however, in fifty years’ time, London is destroyed in a nuclear blast. Or the entire planet is destroyed by an asteroid. Where will you land? Empty space? A meteor field? A radiation field so severe you can’t safely return to St Mary’s for fear of contamination?

  ‘Or, if this is easier, think of the future as a glittering vortex of infinite possibilities, all bunching up to pass through the chicane of Now and become reality. Obviously, most of these possibilities never come to pass. They just quietly fade away into non-existence, which is only a problem if you happen to be an historian visiting that particular possibility. In other wo
rds, nothing is real until it actually happens. Personally, I prefer the certainty of Hastings in 1066 where all you have to do is remember not to look up.’

  They thought about this.

  ‘And on a practical note,’ I continued, ‘who here knows for how long they will live? Suppose you jumped into the future and you were still alive? The consequences would be catastrophic. For that same reason, we don’t usually jump less than one hundred years into the past. The official reason is that that way your younger selves, parents, and grandparents are all safely avoided. As I say, that’s the official line. The unofficial reason is that Dr Bairstow won’t let us go back to tease Stephen Hawking.’

  I paused. I might as well get it over with now.

  ‘While on the subject, you should know that there are areas to which we cannot jump. Temporal hot-spots if you like. Sites of Special Significance.’

  ‘What?’ said Hoyle, sharply. ‘I mean – which areas?’

  ‘Anything to do with religion, mostly. We can only visit Jerusalem at certain times. Or Mecca. Or Bethlehem. Or Medina. Or Benares. Or Bodh Gaya. That’s what those all those three red triple S’s are.’

  I pointed to various spots on the Map.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We’re not in the business of propping up ancient belief systems.’

  ‘But,’ said Sykes, ‘you could prove once and for all …’ She stopped.

  ‘Yes?’ I said. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, if you could prove that the crucifixion actually did take place …’ she trailed away. ‘Oh. Yes. I see.’

  ‘I’m glad you’ve grasped the point so quickly. Imagine the worldwide consequences of confirming the crucifixion did take place. Would they be more or less catastrophic than if we could prove it didn’t?’

  The room sat silently as they worked out the implications.

  ‘For that reason, there are certain areas to which a pod will not – cannot – go. It’s built into the programming.’